Page 29 of Brutal Surrender

“What about pastas, risottos, a nice osso buco?”

“Just because I’m Italian doesn’t mean I like Italian foods best.”

“Your madre or nonna didn’t have a pasta sauce to die for?”

“Well…I did really like my nonna’s pasta sauce.”

“What was her sauce like?”

She regards me carefully. “Why are you asking?”

I prompt her, “Don’t make me repeat myself unless—”

“It was tomato based,” she answers, “lots of herbs, a sprinkling of chili flakes, some vegetables. I liked it topped with a little bit of Pecorino Romano.”

“Sounds like you’re Southern Italian.”

She doesn’t like that I fished for information and caught something.

Pushing herself up from the table, she says, “I need to use the bathroom.”

I can’t help but think she just wants to get away from me. But after a few steps, she stumbles, catching herself on the table. On my feet in an instant, I hold her elbow to steady her. She shirks from me but starts to fall backward. I grab her around the waist and, sweeping her into my arms, carry her to the bathroom.

After I set her down, she says curtly, “I don’t need to use the bathroom anymore.”

“I’m not going to do anything to you,” I assure her.

She looks at me warily. “I don’t believe you.”

“I may be an asshole—”

“That’s an understatement,” she murmurs.

After all that I’ve done to her, and given how I don’t even need a reason to punish her, she still has the gall or idiocy to be sassy with me?

I grab her around throat and bring her near me. Her fingers pry uselessly at my grip.

“Just what am I?” I ask.

“Evil incarnate.”

She’s not really my type. I prefer a softer bone structure, but she’s not unattractive. And there’s something about her that ignites my blood. I want to consume all there is of her. I want to start by smothering her mouth with mine. But I just told her I wouldn’t do anything to her.

I release her. “Even people who are evil incarnate can keep their word. I would make a poor head dragon if people couldn’t rely on my promises.”

“What are you doing?” she asks when I step to a control panel and program the bathtub to fill with water, selecting a comfortable target of eighty-eight degrees.

“You’re taking a bath,” I inform her.

She looks a little dumbfounded, then the wheels start turning as she tries to figure out my true motivations.

“When am I getting sold?” she inquires.

Should I tell her the truth? That I don’t have a buyer for her? That, despite the awful scenarios I painted, I have no intention of selling her to anyone? But maybe it would make her feel better to know that she won’t forever be in my possession.

“Just take the damn bath,” I reply.

Seeing some bath bombs in a glass bowl, I toss one into the tub. Not exactly sure what they do, but women seem to like this stuff.

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